Spring Chicken
by amaretto and coke
Summary: Victor Johnson just can't get his act together when it comes to women. A friend tries to help. Character study of Vic and Sheila. Rating for language. Bar Oasis fic.


_Author's notes: I **love** the "Bar Oasis" games, and play them regularly. For what I originally thought of as a simple drink-mixing game, it's surprisingly poignant. The storyline of Bar Oasis 2 is very psychological if you pay attention to the interactions between the characters, even more so if you take the time to get all three endings._

_I will acknowledge that I've always wondered about the dynamic between Sheila and Vic, though. Getting her "bad ending" on the first game genuinely shocked me, and then I went straight into the second game and watched her play junior psychologist with Vic (which was very frustrating at times, considering her own rocky relationship history). On one level, there are multiple valid reasons why she and Vic can't be a couple; but on the other hand, she seems to know him the best of anyone in the game, and she's clearly still attracted to him, even after she becomes Mrs. Mark Rossi. This story began rattling around in my head for a while after playing both games and the "Day at the Bar" minigame from Bar Oasis 2. It's little more than a talk between Vic and Sheila, but one that they should have had a long time ago, frankly._

_Also, Vic is dating someone in this story, but I didn't say whom. So he's technically with the girl you liked best. :)_

_All characters are the original property of Corners Studio. No ownership or copyright infringement is intended._

_Enjoy._  
_~ a&c_

* * *

_"Spring Chicken"_  
_or, "The Night Vic decided to be honest. Sort of."_

It was a regular ol' Sunday night at Oasis. And that meant practically no business.

Even though each customer who had come in had ordered at least two drinks, and I hadn't given away any freebies all night, the cash register was all but empty. I'd barely sold $100 in drinks. Considering that my average take for each cocktail was around $17 … well, you do the math. And considering that Kane had trashed the bar just two nights prior (and destroyed five bottles of premium whiskey while he bawled hysterically about … whatever the problem was), that meant I was going to end the week in the red. Again. And losing money meant a certain nagging from Desree tomorrow, and probably a full-out scolding from Mr. Hilts and crew come Thursday. I rubbed my temples. Just _thinking_ about it was giving me a headache.

The door bells chimed. I could hear giggles and the _clik-clop_ of high heels echoing down the narrow stairwell. Probably a group of girlfriends on their way home from a movie.

"Hey Vic!"

… that was Sheila O'Brien's voice. I was always glad when she came through. Maybe tonight wouldn't be a total washout after all. I turned around with a smile, only to jolt with surprise. Desree Mboshi was standing right next to her.

Sheila is the wife of my best friend, Mark. She's also one of my former lovers. Desree is our bar's accountant. Also, incidentally, one of my former lovers. I don't usually see them out together. But here they both were, laughing at the look on my face as they sat down at the empty bar.

"You don't look very happy to see us," Desree commented while wiping her eyes.

"Not at all," Sheila agreed. "But don't worry, Vic, we just dropped in for a quick drink on the way back home."

"Ah … sure." I slid coasters to both of them. "What can I getcha?"

"A martini," Sheila smirked, and winked.

Back when I first started here, it was a running joke how bad my bartending skills were. After witnessing an exceptionally rude customer ream me out on my fifth day, Sheila used to order my martinis all the time. Just to make me feel better, of course. I wasn't naïve enough to think that she actually enjoyed them. But ever since she'd gotten married, her usual order was a Soul Mate, the original cocktail I'd made for her and Mark. She never ordered martinis nowadays unless she and Mark were fighting.

Without really thinking about it, I glanced at her left hand. Sure enough, her ring finger was bare. Damn. They'd only been married two months and they were already on the outs? I began to say something to her, but decided to just keep my mouth shut. For now, at least.

I nodded at Desree. "What would you like?"

"… Kiss Me Again, Vic."

Damn! Desree's usual was a glass of Caol Ila whisky. The "Kiss Me Again" was a whisky drink with an egg-white base that I'd ostensibly made 'by customer demand.' As all of my friends had quickly guessed, I'd actually made it for Desree. She didn't try it for the longest, preferring to drink her favorite whiskey straight up and not mixed with anything at all. But a little bird must have whispered in her ear, because here she was, ordering the Kiss Me Again in a tone of voice that would make a man's knees buckle.

I reached for the Caol Ila and poured out three ounces of liquor with a trembling hand. Then an egg white. Then a spoonful of absinthe. I shook the drink hard, stalling for time. Why the hell were both of them teasing me at the same time? Hopefully they'd slurp their drinks down and get the hell out of here.

I handed the Kiss Me Again off to Desree before slowly stirring gin and dry vermouth in a mixing glass for Sheila's martini. Desree hadn't touched her drink yet; she was waiting for me to finish Sheila's. So much for them getting out of here quickly. I set the martini down in front of Sheila and leaned back against the display cabinet to stare at them both. If they wanted to stick around, I couldn't exactly rush them off. I'd just have to make the best of it.

"So where are you two coming from?"

"Window shopping," Sheila said.

Desree chimed in, "Then we went to visit Carla at her new bar to see how she was getting along."

"How's she doing?"

Both women smiled knowingly at me. Carla Mencia used to help me tend bar here, until I ran her off with my stupidity. … yeah, you guessed it, former lover. She works at a different, much more popular bar now. A lot of our regulars go over there to visit her.

In any case, I guess I sounded too eager when I asked about her. Desree just sipped her drink, but Sheila stirred the olive around in her martini for a few moments.

"… Carla the person is fine," Shelia finally said. "Carla the bartender …"

"… has nice boobs," Desree finished.

Sheila burst into hysterics. "Uh, yeah. I don't know how, but she managed to mess up an order of Guinness. _Guinness,_ for fuck's sake! You just open the bottle and serve it with a clean glass!"

"What happened?" I asked.

For an answer, Sheila pointed to her chest.

I wouldn't look at first. Sheila's a slim woman, so her size F chest really stands out. She's not shy about it in the least, either. Even so, I didn't want to stand here and ogle her boobs. She rolled her eyes and laughed. "You getting all shy on me now? Go ahead and look."

So I looked. There was a distinct wet spot in the middle of her low-cut shirt that enhanced her deep cleavage. Her shirt was still sticking to her in spots. I shook my head. "Geez, Carla got you good, didn't she? That must have been fun, hanging out in a busy club bar with beer all over your chest."

"You're telling _me? _Good thing I don't have any shame, or that'd have been the end of my evening. With all the stares I got, you'd have thought those guys never saw a girl's rack before." She took a big gulp of her martini and tipped the half-empty glass at Desree. "Tell him about _your_ drink."

Desree smiled, slightly. "I just wanted a Manhattan. Whisky, sweet vermouth, bitters. Simple enough, at least I thought so. I don't know what she put in there—or forgot to put in there, but it was so bad, I couldn't get through a second swallow. Actually, I couldn't get through the _first _swallow. I had to spit it out."

"So there we are, me with beer all over my tits, and Desree with a drink that she had to spit into a napkin, and Carla asks us, 'Do you want a second round?' A second round? We couldn't even drink the first! Lucky for her it was just us, but she was so embarrassed, poor girl. She said that sort of thing happens to her a lot."

"It _sounds_ embarrassing," I said.

"Yeah, But she was totally apologetic, and she's so cute about it you can't really be mad. But we didn't exactly get anything to drink there, so here we are." Sheila tipped the glass back and drained it completely. "Can I get a Guinness from you, or are you gonna drop it in my lap so I can have wet panties to match my wet shirt?"

Desree snorted out, "Oh, you know Vic. He's such a beast, he makes **all** the girls have wet panties."

… oh god, not again. I've never figured out how the rumors about me get started, but a lot of our customers seem to believe I'm flirting with them, including the guys. It gets awkward to say the least.

Desree finished her drink in the time it took me to get a Guinness for Sheila. I made sure not to spray her with it, and she winked and thanked me. I offered to get Desree a second drink as well, but she refused sweetly. She had books to balance and a season finale to watch on tv, so she was on her way back to her place. "Good night, Vic. Hopefully I'll have good news to report to the owners tomorrow, after figuring out how much money you've wasted this week."

"Hey, it wasn't me! Kane isn't a happy drunk like you are!"

"Well, if you _know_ that, you shouldn't serve him drinks!"

"I _didn't!_ Vicki and Alex were celebrating their month-long dating cycle and they shared their champagne with him. I didn't know until I came back from dry storage and found him swinging a crowbar everywhere!"

Kane McGriff is an … interesting man. He's normally very butch and very intimidating. But if the man gets any alcohol in him, he starts sobbing. And he usually breaks things, like bottles of pricey whiskey. As a result, I don't serve Kane liquor, even when he asks for it. But every now and then, someone will slip him a drink, and then we all pay for it. Several times over. But Desree wasn't impressed by my explanation. She sighed and shook her head. "Vic, don't you get it yet? The owners don't really care about you losing money. Hell, Boss lost _plenty_ of it. But it's not good for a customer service employee to provide such poor customer service on such a regular basis. So stop blaming others and take some responsibility. You already know Kane can't hold his liquor, you need to make sure he doesn't have any."

She reached out and squeezed my hand. "Have a good evening, I'll see you tomorrow." And she strutted out of the door, like the runway model she used to be.

I thought I was just thinking about Kane, but apparently I was staring after Desree as she left. And apparently I was staring for long enough to make Sheila burst into wicked laughter. "For a pair of exes, you two sure do like to be around each other. You know it was her idea to come over here, right? I was totally ready to just go home. She insisted."

"No, I really didn't."

"Of course not," Sheila muttered. "And next you'll tell me you feel fine right now."

"I do."

"Vic. Vic, Vic, Vic. You'd make a great boyfriend for some lucky girl, except you'll never get there. You won't be honest."

"Hey, I'm the bartender. It's not _my_ job to spill my guts to every face that comes through the door."

"No," Sheila said pointedly, "it's not. But you do owe it to your friends not to lie to their faces."

I looked at her, long and hard. Sheila and I have some history, and as brief as it was—eighteen days together, before she left me and went back to Mark—she probably got to know me better in that time than anyone ever has. It used to unnerve me, how easily she could read me by just a glance. Tonight, though, it just made me annoyed. Maybe it was because I'm dating one girl and still thinking about all the other girls I've slept with. Maybe it was because I could see shards of glass glittering under the display cabinet, little remnants of the bottles that Kane destroyed in his forgetful drunken rage, reminding me that after all this time, I was still little more than a spring chicken. Maybe it was just the irony of being given relationship advice by someone who was only two months into a marriage and already not wearing her ring. Whatever the problem was, it set me off.

"Okay, Sheila. You want some honesty?"

"It'd be nice for once," she snapped.

"Fine. You suck."

She cocked an eyebrow at me and slowly repeated, **"I** suck."

"Yes. You. You talk like you're an expert on good relationships—you went from being married to a miserable asshole, to being a fool for the biggest male whore in town. Mark might be my friend, but you knew damn well what he was like before you started sleeping with him. So fool you twice, I guess. And even though you tell people I'm the best lay you ever had, let me remind you, you didn't even have the guts to say goodbye when you ditched me. And I'm still pissed with you for that. So there's your honesty. Enjoy it for whatever it's worth now."

I really expected her to throw her beer in my face, or slap me, or storm out. Instead, she laughed again. But soon enough she was biting her lip.

"… yeah, I didn't think you _had_ forgiven me for that," she said, and sighed. "You're right, Vic. That really wasn't cool of me at all. I didn't stop to think about how much that must have hurt you. I'm sorry. I really am."

"Yeah," I muttered.

It's funny, I'd managed to squash that anger down for the longest time—there's no way I could have stayed friends with either Mark or Sheila if I hadn't, let alone watch them enter into this … disastrous marriage that they were struggling through now. I really thought I was over it.

I **so** wasn't.

But now that I'd finally gotten up enough nerve to tell her to her face how pissed I was with her, I couldn't actually stay mad with her. If anything, I was getting mopey and depressed.

"You know, Vic, you never asked me **why** I left you."

"It was pretty obvious, wasn't it? You were in love with Mark."

"Well, yes, but …" She gulped down the dregs of her beer. I offered to get her another, but she shook her head and pointed at the bottle of Glenfidditch. I poured out two fingers of scotch for her and set the glass down by her hand. She snatched it up and gulped.

"The problem with guys like you is that you don't belong with girls like me. Look at you, right now. It's been over a year since we broke up and you're still so mad you could probably punch a hole through the wall right now, no problem. Now me, I make jokes about how much I fuck up. I want to laugh and you want to scream. We'd kill each other in no time flat if we ever had a real fight. We're totally incompatible." Her words slipped out, hot and hasty. Maybe she'd been waiting to say this to me, too?

"But—"

"Aaaaand," she went on, waggling the glass significantly, "you're too dense to realize that I did you an enormous favor. I freed you up to be with the gorgeous girl you're with now and took Mark out of the general dating pool so that the female population of the city can sleep easier at night, and you can't even appreciate that because you're too busy pouting that we didn't have a big knock-down, drag-out fight when we broke up."

"Are you trying to tell me that we wouldn't have made it?"

"Well, duh, of course we wouldn't have," she said breezily. "Even if you _weren't _such an idiot—even if you _could _be honest when you're hurt or upset—you still haven't learned that relationships take **work, **Vic." She drank down the last swallows and smacked the bartop with her hand. Her eyes, normally so soft and gentle, were suddenly hard enough to etch glass.

"See, right now all you're really good for is one-night stands and making other guys jealous. But there's more to a relationship than being a great lay. You still think that you can fix anything with alcohol or sex. You don't know how to fight through problems and be persistent. You're not willing to do what it takes to really make a relationship last. You don't fight for what you want, you just let it slip away and pretend like you're fine afterwards. I can't settle for that, and I don't want to be with a guy who settles for that."

I couldn't hold her stare any more. My eyes dropped to the floor, staring at the broken shards that glittered up at me. I heard her plop backwards onto the old bar stool, and when she spoke again, her voice was full of sad pity. "I know you didn't want to hear that from me. But one day you'll thank me for caring enough about you to say it. On the day you finally decide to stop settling and start fighting for the girl you really want, you'll remember this conversation, and you'll thank me then. Count on it."

She gestured to me to come closer, and even though we were technically still arguing, I came right over to her. "I don't like seeing you sad, Vic. None of us do. And I think you have a really good chance of being happy right now. But it doesn't matter how hard _she_ tries to be happy with you if you won't try at all." She kissed my cheek and stood. "I love you, you big goof. Get it together, okay?"

"O … okay."

The sound of her footsteps walking away filled me with sorrow. Even though she already knew her apartment was empty, she was still going back there. She was going home to the relationship that she was willing to fight for. I was suddenly very glad that the bar was empty. I don't think I could have faced anyone else tonight.

Have I mentioned that Sheila knows me well? She managed to see right through all of my bluster and pin me down in a just a few sentences. And of course she was right, as little as I liked to acknowledge it. I _hadn't_ fought for my relationships. With her, or with Desree, or with Carla. And I wasn't fighting now, and I already knew what it was ultimately going to get me. Dumped. Again.

I looked at the time. Almost midnight. Almost Monday.

My girl usually calls the bar right about now, when she finally gets the chance to take a break. Lately our conversations were slow—meaningless small talk, awkward interruptions, uncomfortable silences. And just like Sheila said, I was letting what little we had left go down the drain. Because I thought I was doing her a favor somehow. Letting her down easy.

… idiot.

The phone was ringing. I took a breath before I picked it up. Tonight was going to be different. Tonight, I was going to start fighting for her. The way I needed to. The way she deserved. The way we _both_ deserved.

"… hello."

_~fin_


End file.
